r's wife was
dishonored. Love, honor, friendship, were with him as words. He regarded
no ties; he defied and set at naught all human laws and obligations--and
yet he was religious, or esteemed so--received the _viaticum_, and died
full of years and honors, hugging salvation to his sinful heart. And
after death he has yon lying epitaph to record his virtues. _His_
virtues! ha, ha! Ask him who preaches to the kneeling throng gathering
within this holy place what shall be the murderer's portion--and he will
answer--_Death!_ And yet Sir Reginald was long-lived. The awful
question, 'Cain, where is thy brother?' broke not his tranquil slumbers.
Luke, I have told you much--but not all. You know not, as yet--nor shall
you know your destiny; but you shall be the avenger of infamy and
blood. I have a sacred charge committed to my keeping, which, hereafter,
I may delegate to you. You _shall_ be Sir Luke Rookwood, but the
conditions must be mine to propose."

"No more," said Luke; "my brain reels. I am faint. Let us quit this
place, and get into the fresh air." And striding past his grandsire he
traversed the aisles with hasty steps. Peter was not slow to follow. The
key was applied, and they emerged into the churchyard. The grassy mounds
were bathed in the moonbeams, and the two yew-trees, throwing their
black jagged shadows over the grave hills, looked like evil spirits
brooding over the repose of the righteous.

The sexton noticed the deathly paleness of Luke's countenance, but he
fancied it might proceed from the tinge of the sallow moonlight.

"I will be with you at your cottage ere daybreak," said Luke. And
turning an angle of the church, he disappeared from view.

"So," exclaimed Peter, gazing after him, "the train is laid; the spark
has been applied; the explosion will soon follow. The hour is fast
approaching when I shall behold this accursed house shaken to dust, and
when my long-delayed vengeance will be gratified. In that hope I am
content to drag on the brief remnant of my days. Meanwhile, I must not
omit the stimulant. In a short time I may not require it." Draining the
bottle to the last drop, he flung it from him, and commenced chanting,
in a high key and cracked voice, a wild ditty, the words of which ran as
follow:

THE CARRION CROW

The Carrion Crow is a sexton bold.
He raketh the dead from out the mould;
He delveth the ground like a miser old,
Stealthily hiding his store of gold.